All The Empire's Lost Children
by The Divine Comedian
Summary: For someone trying to use their gift as little as possible, the gift sure has a way of clobbering Kanan over the head from time to time. Especially lately. Hera bets it means something. (Spoiler: it does. This is the story of how the Ghost crew found Sabine.)
1. Chapter 1

**Note:** Mostly a story about Hera, Kanan, and the Force. Also a story about how the _Ghost_ crew found Sabine. Standalone, precedes _The Physics of Glitter_.

* * *

 **All The Empire's Lost Children 1/2**

* * *

Long missions in space are hard on the fragile mind. It's the artificial light, the recycled air, the stark contrast between the wide-open space that is too large to understand, and the confined cabin that offers but the barest protection.

If the _Ghost_ were a more recreational sort of ship, Hera might have programmed the life support systems to create an illusionary planetary environment. There are even commercial sequences, _Alderaan Summer_ being a popular one (a warm yellow light during the day accompanied by a light breeze of exactly twenty-two degrees, a cool purple emergency illumination during the night).

Instead, the _Ghost_ is on the generic day-and-night cycle that came with the life support unit. After all, everyone's sense of time is shot after a few weeks in space, _Alderaan Summer_ or not, and by then, they will have vowed never to set foot on that blasted planet again.

Therefore, it doesn't surprise her to hear someone move behind her, even at this ungodly hour.

"You're awake," Kanan states when he has made his way less than stealthily into the cockpit.

She looks back over her shoulder, and up. And _up_. He's tall.

" _You're_ awake," she replies.

"…Why?"

He's barefoot, his long hair all over the place instead of neatly tied up. Leaning against the back of her seat, half for support and half for the hell of it, Kanan appears to be in a sleepier mood than he usually displays to the world. Hera finds it adorable.

"The damn hyperdrive motivator again," she says.

"Ah, yes," Kanan says. He peers at the screen, then down at her, then back at the screen. "I did notice we fell out of hyperspace. What's wrong with it?"

"Nothing much," says Hera. "The motivator has decided it doesn't process batch commands anymore. Means someone –" she yawns –" will have to get up after each partial jump and feed it the next line from the navcomputer."

"…I see."

"You do know modern spaceships don't travel long-distance in one straight line?" says Hera. "Partial jump navigation has been the height of technology for about thirty years now."

"…Yes?"

He deposits his warm human hand on the back of her neck, fingertips subtly working against the tension he finds there. He's not very precise today, but she is not going to complain. This time.

"Anyway," she says, subtly leaning into the touch as a sign of appreciation. "The navcomputer, in turn, has this wonderful security feature where it erases all previous calculations after two hours so idiots won't jump into hyperspace based on stale coordinates."

She doesn't think he's truly listening, so she is a bit surprised when he says, "So you're getting up every few hours to tell the navcomputer to recalculate the route to Lothal?"

"Exactly." She hides another yawn. Badly. "In case you were wondering, it takes seventeen minutes every time."

"Wake me next time," he says generously. "I can operate a navcomputer."

"It's okay, the _Ghost_ is _my_ baby," she says. "My beloved, teething baby. You can get up for the next one."

He regards her with a sceptical expression. "You're laughing now," he says. "Just because you trust me to tell apart the _Ghost's_ bow from the stern –"

"Oh, I barely do," she says with a wink. "And you bet I'll still be laughing when the time comes."

Kanan gives up looming over her for the moment and plonks down into the copilot's seat, putting his feet up on the console. Hands folded under his chin, he's rapidly looking a bit _too_ relaxed. Much like she'd left him earlier tonight.

"Seriously, Kanan, what are you doing out of bed?" she says.

Maybe he's sleepwalking, she thinks. Well. Long week. Long month. In many respects, long _life_. She doesn't expect a serious reply, but she gets one.

"You called for help," Kanan says, leaning back with his eyes closed.

"I didn't," says Hera.

"Well, _someone_ did."

"Look," says Hera, "I'm not complaining about having company while I'm babysitting the navcomputer – _again_ – but if you are truly in a helpful mood, how about you get us some coffee?"

She goes back to coaxing the navcomputer into calculating the longest partial jump in the general direction of Lothal that its software will allow, when her undercaffeinated brain catches on a hangnail in the conversation. She looks up at Kanan, whose eyes are open now. And a bit rounder than usual. He definitely doesn't look relaxed anymore.

"What did you just say?" says Hera.

"What did I just say?" says Kanan.

"You said, 'someone did'," she says helpfully.

"I did say that, didn't I?" he says. "Oh."

"Did you hear someone call for help?"

"I thought it was you," says Kanan.

Hera sighs. "It wasn't me. We have established that. Was it Zeb?"

"I really don't think so."

"Chopper?" she asks.

"Would I get up for Chopper?"

"Was it a Jedi vision?"

Kanan shields his eyes with his hand, but that doesn't change the fact that he's out of alternatives. "Bloody hell, not again," he groans.

For someone trying to use their gift as little as possible, Hera thinks, the gift sure has a way of clobbering him over the head from time to time. Especially lately.

She bets it means something.

"Was it a dream, you think?" says Hera. "Because you might want to go back to bed, Kanan, you're exhausted."

If anyone is going to hear people call for help in his dreams, it's probably Kanan. But in that case, nothing anyone can do now, they're all dead.

Hera has witnessed those dreams, though. She's woken him up from them. She's wrapped her arms around his rigid, shaking body and said his name, his chosen name, until he's back in the here and now and able to disengage his mind from everything he could potentially lose. No way would he just wander sleepily through the ship after one of these. No way would he seek out her company, or anyone's company, for the rest of the night. It's why, after all these years, he still has his own cabin.

Which is confusing the hell out of Zeb.

Kanan is probably thinking along the same lines. "Only one good thing about dreams," he says. "They fade so quickly. This isn't." He looks like the image of a man wanting to go back to bed and sleep for a hundred years. Dreamlessly.

The navcomputer gives a friendly beep.

"Can you get to the bottom of it while we're in hyperspace?" says Hera.

Kanan blinks. He looks so tempted, Hera almost feels guilty. After all, hyperspace is the ultimate running away.

"I," he says, that noble Jedi. "Five minutes? I'll just do a scan of the surroundings. That'll help."

"No," says Hera. " _I'll_ do a scan of the surroundings. You go make coffee. A nice big one for you, and a nice big one for me, and then you bring them here and we look at the scans together. Sounds good?"

She dearly hopes that Kanan in his current condition is better at processing batch jobs than the hyperdrive motivator.

After ten minutes, the next partial jump is all set to go and she notices Kanan hasn't come back. After fifteen, the surroundings are more than thoroughly scanned. She finds Kanan in the kitchen, leaning over the boiling kettle with his head bowed, in the sort of quiet meditation he occasionally retreats to in his own room.

"Figured it out?" she says while she takes the kettle and pours its content into two giant mugs filled with coffee powder. So he got that far. Could be worse.

"Someone's here, Hera," he says. His voice sounds far away. "But it's _really_ faint. Think I'm out of practice?"

To be honest, yes, Hera thinks Kanan is out of practice. Kanan probably thinks so, too. But then, he's the one not practising, so he should know best.

"We _are_ in space over Corellia," Hera points out. "Sixteen billion people. One of the biggest systems this side of Coruscant."

"Corellia, huh?"

"You did _not_ just miss Corellia on the screen, love," says Hera. She takes his unresisting hand and deposits one of the coffee mugs in there.

"Long day," he says.

"Concentrate, Kanan," she says. "Who is that someone? Why are they important?"

"I don't know, and I don't know," says Kanan, frowning, "but I think they're dying."

Hera swallows. "Sixteen billion people in this system," she repeats. "Someone's always dying."

"But this is the one we can save," says Kanan. At least he sounds a touch more certain now. "Did you see anything in the scan?"

"Not much," says Hera. "Traffic as usual. It gets a bit more interesting off the standard sublight corridors. Looks like there has been a skirmish somewhere over the night side, judging by the concentration of –"

" _Debris_."

"What?"

"There's debris everywhere and it's killing them," says Kanan.

"You know, Kanan, piracy is like a bloody sport on Corellia," says Hera. "There's debris all over the orbit."

"A sign is a sign is a sign," says Kanan. "Who am I to argue? Let's fly into a cloud of debris, we're needed there."

It's a very peculiar mix of sincere and sarcastic: one is directed at her, the other, presumably, at the Force.

He eyes the coffee in his hand, as if trying to figure out how it has ended up there, then takes a sip. "Bloody boiling," he says.

"Remind me why I ever doubt your judgment," says Hera, blowing into her own mug.

"Tell me about it," says Kanan. "I'll buy you a drink if this turns out to be, you know. Stupid. _Again_."

"You _love_ buying me drinks," Hera points out.

"See?" says Kanan. "Everybody wins."

Hera sighs. "I'll go wake Zeb, shall I? Someone's gotta man the nose gun in case those pirates are still around."

* * *

Hera is reluctant to yield the controls to Kanan, but after twenty minutes of thoroughly non-standard directions such as "Turn slightly to the left until you just can't see Corellia IV in the bottom right corner anymore", she all but forces him into the pilot's seat.

Is that what Jedi visions are like? All impressions and imagery? No wonder Kanan resents them.

Watching is not much better. Standing behind him as he's operating the controls with eerie concentration, she hopes he can't see the way she's gripping the back of the seat. Well, he probably can't, she thinks, _because he's got his eyes closed_. All around them, high velocity scrap metal parts are barely deflected by the shields. A handful more of those, and they'll have to leave and recharge. If they are lucky.

"Looks like a mid-size fleet had a disagreement with a mid-size asteroid field," she says. "Any of those ping your senses? Take your pick."

She expects something sarcastic, but today is not the day. "That fighter," says Kanan. "The one over there."

He's pointing directly at it, and still she almost misses it until the _Ghost's_ search light is upon it. It's an older model, Z-85 or maybe even 75, filling the screen as he manoeuvres towards it. The markings are hard to make out; the hull is bashed in, barely holding up. The inside is dark, the once transparent front panel sporting a spider web of fault lines. It is clearly drifting.

"I'm sorry, love," says Hera softly. It looks positively hopeless.

"Yeah, I see what you mean," says Kanan.

"I don't see how anyone could have survived in there," Hera continues. "Without shock absorbers, inertia alone – " She notices that Kanan has his eyes closed again. He's reaching out.

"No, that's the one," says Kanan. He sounds only slightly less sceptical than she feels. "Tell you what, I'll lower the shield, engage the magnetic lock, and then we'll see who the Force decided to surprise us with today."

Probably a desiccated, flash-frozen body, thinks Hera, but bites her tongue before she says it out loud. After all, she doesn't _want_ to play into Kanan's resentments towards the Force. He's usually doing a pretty good job of that all by himself.

"Someone nice, I hope," she says diplomatically. "What? Let us please not save a pirate, they're bloody vicious around here."

"Promise," says Kanan. "If it's a pirate, I'll just throw them back."

Hera snorts, briefly puts a hand on his shoulder and squeezes. "You old romantic," she says.

Then it's just Hera in the cockpit, holding position, occasionally conversing with Zeb and Chopper in the nose and rear gun on how best to blast approaching debris pieces out of the sky. After a while, Kanan's voice comes in over the intercom.

"Hera?"

"Here," says Hera. "How much longer?"

"Bit of a problem," says Kanan. He sounds thoroughly annoyed. "I've got the clamp on, but that fighter is so dented that the magnetic lock can't seal properly. I need you to depressurise the airlock so I can try and give it a wiggle from outside."

"Of course," says Hera. "Nice day for an EVA." She pauses. "Will you holler when you've suited up, or do you prefer a surprise decompression today?"

"Yeah," says Kanan. "Knew I forgot something."

He gives her the signal over the EVA suit's comlink a couple of minutes later, and swings himself outside to get to work. Meanwhile, Hera is scanning the surroundings for something to do.

Uh-oh.

"Spectre Two to Spectre Four," she says into the comlink. "See those dots moving against the flow starboard?"

"Yeah," says Zeb, not sounding very awake himself. At least that means he is too tired to complain that they woke him up because they fancied flying through a debris field. "Looks like company. You want me to shoot at it?"

"Spectre One here," interjects Kanan. "May I just preemptively remind all of you that it's a really bad moment to be rocking the ship?"

"What are you even doing outside, did you just feel like taking a stroll?" says Zeb. "Hera wasn't entirely clear on, well, any of this."

"Copy that, Spectre One," says Hera, interrupting. "And hurry up. Spectre Three, Spectre Four, let's pretend we're part of the rubble for now. See what they'll do."

The two moving dots turn out to be freighters – suspiciously heavily armed freighters – , and they are inching closer until they are hovering at either side of the _Ghost_ , whose lights are out, shields are down, and transmissions are masked. Still, the _Ghost_ is pretty big and pretty intact to be, well, debris. Hera is wondering whether the pirates might be looking for the fighter pilot, when suddenly a stranger's voice reverberates through the cockpit.

"Good evening, amigos," it says. "It's the end of a long day, I'm up to my ass in deadlines tomorrow, and boss says I can't go off to beddie-byes until I brought in some good haul. So, in sum, drop your cargo or we'll shoot you to pieces." The transmission clicks, then comes online again. "Sorry for the inconvenience," the voice adds.

Hera swears under her breath. "Kanan?"

" _Busy_!" Kanan shouts back.

He wants shouting? He can have shouting. "I'd like to raise the shields now," she shouts back.

"Well, you're gonna have to stall them," shouts Kanan. "It still won't lock on properly, and that hatch is all bashed up –"

"If it won't lock it will decompress anyway –" she shouts. _If_ that carcass of a fighter is even holding any pressure. She wouldn't bet on it.

" _I know that_!"

"– so forget the hatch and _just use your lightsabre,_ you complete _Jedi_!"

" _Oh_ ," shouts Kanan. "You're right! How about that!"

It's not Hera's favourite option, probably for the same reason why Kanan has delayed this for long, but if the pilot even loosely followed standard procedure when that fighter lost power, short-term pressure loss won't be much of an issue.

It's a slightly stronger 'if' than she is comfortable with.

In the meantime, she has two freighters full of impatient pirates to slow down. She flips a few switches: fast boot sequence for the sublight drive, transponder, radio.

"Imperial patrol ship _Manowar_ to unidentified pirate vessels, Captain Lom speaking," Hera says firmly into the radio, using her best snotty Coruscant accent. "Prepare to be boarded. You will need to present your IDs and shipment papers."

There is silence from the other end of the conversation. Potentially, a cocky young pirate is frantically checking the _Ghost's_ fake transponder signal, which is currently identifying it as the _Manowar_ , captained by Dr Aszahi Lom, feared pirate hunter. Hera knows she might be overdoing it, but that ID is by miles her most authoritative one.

"Imperial patrol ship _Manowar_ ," says the unknown voice, a bit tamer, but apparently still feeling clever. "Sure! Sorry about that. We'll be preparing a warm welcome to your landing party. Please dock starboard, and excuse the mess. … We don't entertain much."

"Acknowledged, unidentified pirate vessel," she says. "Be advised that anything but your full cooperation will result in your obliteration. _Manowar_ out."

Great, thinks Hera. Now it's all a question of who is willing to hold the bluff longer. She has no intention to dock _or_ enter, but she's turning the _Ghost_. Nice and slow. Nice and –

Good time to get an update. "Kanan?"

"Inside, all clear!" comes his voice after a short pause. "You wouldn't believe –"

"Shields are going up. Magnetic lock disengaged, pressurising airlock."

"Slowly!" comes the prompt response.

Of course. Would be a shoddy rescue if they accidentally deafened whoever Kanan has brought in. She has got to admit she is a bit surprised. At the very least, the pilot they brought in is not _obviously_ dead.

But first things first. Hera flips over to internal com. "Spectre 3, Spectre 4, how about a couple of warning shots? Target their screens. On my command."

"Spectre 1," she adds, "the turret gun is all yours whenever you find the time."

"…Depends," says Kanan, sounding a bit preoccupied. "How dead are we if I don't?"

"Oh, so mama will have to get us out of this mess, is that what you're saying?"

"Quickly. Yes."

Starting to feel like a switchboard operator, she flips the radio switch to outgoing. "Imperial command ship _Manowar_ to unknown pirate vessels," she says slowly. "On second thought –"

And back to internal com. "Spectre 3, Spectre 4, _now_!"

Her turning manoeuvre has brought the two pirate ships in range of the nose and rear guns, respectively. Their concentrated laser beams bounce off the pirates' reinforced shields, not causing much damage, but hopefully blinding both crews momentarily. She jerks the _Ghost_ forward, aiming to bring as much debris as possible between her and the larger freighters.

"Aw man," says the stranger's voice from the radio. "You're the second one trying this bullshit today. You do know we have you outgunned, don't you?"

Turns out he's not lying. Their heavy laser blasts are barely absorbed by the _Ghost_ 's deflector shields. The readings from the controls are worrying: Between the heightened energy demands of the shock absorbers and the shields, the ship is not going to be able to withstand much more before it loses energy.

Fortunately, it doesn't have to. Momentarily slipping behind a large asteroid, Hera scans the surroundings, trying to memorise the output; at least the big pieces and their velocity. She wants no surprises steering through the debris.

Unfortunately, the pirate freighters are advancing faster than they have any right to. She'd counted on them having to laboriously navigate around the bigger asteroids, but it turns out they simply blast them apart.

Is that how they hunt? She thinks suddenly. Maybe they have the debris field carefully mapped and just go after whoever tries to slip by the official sublight routes to Corellia, in the secure knowledge that anyone desperate enough to enter the debris field will be motivated to remain hidden.

She has an idea.

"So what's your great plan, Spectre mama?" says Zeb.

"They're counting on us having something to hide," says Hera, navigating the _Ghost_ tightly between two large pieces of rock, wincing as a jagged durasteel beam barely misses them.

"We do have something to hide," Zeb points out. "A whole cargo bay full."

"And we're _good_ at hiding it," says Hera.

The rubble gets thinner. And while the pirates are not advancing, she's not losing them, either.

But she's not going where they think she's going, which is deep space. Another minute and they'll be in sight of Corellian space traffic control.

"We're faster and more manoeuvrable," explains Hera between two evasive manoeuvres that would probably have won her awards if this were a certified flight simulator. "I'll run for it, and join the sublight queue over the Corellian moon. They probably won't shoot us to pieces in front of an Imperial Star Destroyer."

Finally they're out of the debris field, and it's as she predicted: the pirates are staying behind. Admittedly, it's probably to watch and laugh themselves silly.

"No, but the Imperial Star Destroyer might," Zeb points out.

"Are you new?" says Hera. "I have wonderful fake IDs for this ship and I've always wanted to try out my Bocce accent."

"Yeah, sounds like a great plan, Hera, well done," says Kanan. He sounds, unbelievably, more tired than he did half an hour ago.

"No, it doesn't," says Zeb. "What's wrong with you?" He, on the other hand, just sounds exasperated with the two of them.

"The plan just needs one minor alteration," continues Kanan. "We can't get stuck in a sublight traffic jam, the kid needs a medcenter."

Hera's hand pauses over the sublight controls. "I'm sorry, did you say 'kid'?" she says.

" _What kid_?" says Zeb.

"I believe I said 'medcenter'," says Kanan.

"Sure," says Hera, but she's already adjusting the course. "After just barely throwing off these pirates, I'll fly through _Imperial_ space to an _Imperial_ medcenter, while carrying a load of shield generators stolen, as it were, _from the Imperials_. And because none of that is conspicuous enough, how about I'll send off an emergency signal to the _Imperial_ space traffic control in order to cut the traffic jam. Sounds like a plan."

"Knew you'd understand," says Kanan. "And when you're done saving us all, swing down to the nursery, I could use some help saving this one."

* * *

 _To be continued_.


	2. Chapter 2

**Note:** And here we are again! Thank you to all who reviewed, I am happy to hear you are enjoying the story! In here: lots of Jedi stuff, explosions, and Hera thinking everyone's too young.

* * *

 **All The Empire's Lost Children 2/2**

* * *

The crazy plan works, for a certain definition of the word "work", and, frankly, for a certain definition of the word "plan" (no-one on board disputes the word "crazy").

After transmitting the medical emergency signal, Hera had barely had time to cross her fingers before the response comes with Imperial swiftness. She'd expected them to just send a vector; instead, an Imperial patrol boat detaches from the space traffic control platform to escort them to the nearest medcenter, past the gridlocked sublight queue.

"High time the Imperials made themselves useful," Kanan comments distractedly over the intercom when she tells him the news. If he's nervous having Imperials that close, he isn't showing it. Hera shares the feeling. She herself is hiding a lot of the same sentiment.

But all in all, could be worse.

Could _get_ worse, too. Hera doesn't exactly have a plan yet for when they eventually land on the moon. But it turns out they have some time to think this through; Corellia is a big system with a centralised structure and a notorious traffic problem. The ETA is a staggering one and a half hours.

Kanan comments on that bit of information by merely swearing.

No time to lean back and be quietly nervous; Kanan needs her help in the nursery. Hera's programs the Ghost to follow the Imperials' beacon and tells Chopper to adjust if needed. And to holler if anyone starts shooting at them. Then she hurries down to the empty cabin opposite Zeb's, the one they call the _nursery_.

It's Kanan's and her own terrible private joke. Currently, she's storing tools in there.

Stepping inside, she notices the heating is cranked up as far as it goes. Kanan has emptied out the ship's medpack on the floor. Next to it lies a dented helmet. Hera vaguely recognises the shape – some martial Outer Rim culture? The paintjob, on the other hand, is a bit atypical.

"Oh good, you're here," Kanan says over his shoulder. "You know, one thing I really didn't expect to find in that fighter was a Mandalorian teenage girl."

A Mandalorian _what_? Hera takes a step towards the bunk. Underneath two blankets, she can make out a short, thin, humanoid shape. "Oh god, that's an actual _child_ ," she says.

Her heart breaks for the kid lying pale and motionless in the bunk. One look tells her that things have gone seriously wrong for this one. It's all in the colours; red blood matted in one side of a shock of white-pink hair, purple rings underneath her eyes. What Hera can see of her skin – her face, her arm, her fingers – are tinged blue.

And she's _young_. She should never have been out there on her own.

Thankfully, it looks like Kanan has made some progress working his way down the list of first aid procedures. The kid's mouth and nose are covered with a hyperbaric oxygen mask. Her one exposed arm has a vital monitor strapped to it, displaying heart rate, blood pressure, and blood oxygenation. Exactly none of those look great. A venous line delivers saline solution into her blood, and just now Kanan is gluing together a laceration on the side of her head.

"Thank the Force for Mandalorian armour," he remarks softly. "The kid would have died three different ways without it."

Frankly, it looks as though that's still an option. "How is she now?" asks Hera.

Kanan's hands sink. He looks defeated. "With that ETA?" he says. "We won't get there in time. No way."

Hera swallows hard. "You said you needed help saving her," she says tonelessly. It sounded urgent ten minutes ago. Now, in hindsight, it sounds like a promise.

"I did say that," he says. He straightens subtly, as if he's come to a decision. As if that hadn't happened hours ago. "I'm sorry, Hera," he says. "There's a risk we'll need to take. If you're on board."

It doesn't even occur to Hera to ask what kind of risk. Because what is the alternative – do nothing, let a kid die? Not on _her_ watch.

"We made that decision when we steered into the debris," she says, which he acknowledges with a small smile. "What do you need me to do?"

"Monitor the vitals," he says. "Anything redlines, you inject more of this –" he holds up a ViStim injector – "directly into the venous line. Oh, and then, slap me."

"With pleasure," says Hera. "…Why?"

"Because I'll be trying to get her into a Jedi healing trance," says Kanan.

She nods, a bit surprised. "Does that even work on someone who isn't – "

Wrong question, apparently, judging by Kanan's pained expression. "Let's just say it may the stupidest idea I've had in years," he concedes. "I might go down, and Force knows which way _she_ will go. So if anything happens, slap me. Trust me, I'll have deserved it."

She acknowledges it, wishing he'd sound more confident. He doesn't usually perform his Jedi tricks in front of her, so this must mean he's all out of options. The thought is not exactly reassuring.

"Best get it over with, then," she says, and he nods.

Then, after settling down next to Kanan on the floor, Hera hypnotises the vital monitor, her fingers clenched around the ViStim injector, hoping to whoever's listening that the Imperials will not launch an attack. Kanan touches his fingers gently to the girl's forehead.

The gentle hum of the sublight drive is the only noise. Kanan half-closes his eyes, and exhales slowly. It is as if today's stress – the debris field, the pirates, the Imperials – vanishes out of existence. The resulting calm is almost contagious; even Hera feels more relaxed.

Several minutes are taking their time to pass. Whatever it is that Kanan is doing somewhere in her peripheral vision, it doesn't look particularly impressive. But gradually, Hera can see the effects in the heart rate she's monitoring: it picks up pace, becomes more regular. She waits until she hears the girl draw a deep, calm breath, then another, before she dares taking her eyes off the monitor even for a second. Naturally, they flicker towards Kanan before returning. He looks at peace, but not only that.

Solemn. Lonely. The last of his kind.

Not for the first time, she wonders what Kanan would be like as a dad. He hasn't even had parents growing up, he'd had _teachers_ , and _mentors_. She bets exactly none of them would get up five times in one night to console a teething baby, or comfort a little boy who'd had a scary dream, or tell a proper dad joke to an embarrassed teenager. With no-one to emulate, would he just magically know how to do these things?

To speak nothing of the Jedi order's active discouragement of partnership and family. It has been an ongoing question for her, and not one with an easy answer. She'd always thought it could go either way, with him.

Today is different. Witnessing him helping this stranger, she thinks he might do all right with kids of his own. He'll have to wing it, sure, but today he's stepping up. He's assuming responsibility. That's more than can be said for many.

She tucks that conclusion away into a corner of her mind, where she stores certain thoughts for later. For the day when the Empire is but ashes for them to walk on. When Kanan is not just one betrayal away from execution. When the nursery is not just a store for her tools.

Belatedly, she realises Kanan is looking at her, with his eyes the exact colour of the ocean on Ryloth. Immersing himself in the Force is so uncommon for him, she's forgotten how this works: It makes him the opposite of self-absorbed. He is focused, sharpened, tuned in.

 _Perceptive_.

"It's not always going to be like this," he says softly. His voice sounds far away.

"Let's still be there when the time comes," she answers.

He fixates her for just a moment longer, then shrugs and looks elsewhere. "Always in motion, the future is." His own private joke, only slightly less terrible than the name she's given their spare cabin. The kid looks better now, sleeping rather than unconscious, and, thankfully, slightly less blue.

"There," says Kanan. "Did what I could." He withdraws his hand, slowly, like he's just adjusted a delicate circuit.

"Can I still slap you?" says Hera.

"Depends," says Kanan. "Did it work?"

With what looks like considerable effort, he turns the vital monitor towards him. "Oh, good," he says. His eyes close, just for one moment, and he sways even sitting down. Hera isn't sure whether that's relief or just exhaustion. She steadies him with a hand on his shoulder.

A new idea makes its way to the foreground of Hera's thoughts, one worry spontaneously replacing another. "Do you think she'll know when she wakes up?" she asks.

"Know what?" says Kanan. He still looks like he's trying to catch himself.

"Will she wake up and think, hey, was that a Jedi healing trance?" she says. "Is that the risk you talked about?"

"I don't know, maybe," Kanan says with a hint of frustration. Not at her, she knows, at life in general. "Look, I _said_ there's a risk," he says. "She might notice something's odd. The medics might notice something's odd. Doesn't mean anyone will connect the dots."

But they might, is what they both know he's not saying. Well, she has agreed to this.

"Most of all, it feels like a deep sleep," adds Kanan after a moment of consideration. "Like the best sleep you ever had." He sounds almost wistful.

"You look like you could use some of that," she says.

Kanan smiles at her. "I'll sleep when we are done here."

He doesn't say with what. With the day? With saving everyone? With some nebulous task the Force has given him?

"Dreams?" she asks after a moment.

"Replay," he says. "Whatever's been on your mind, it's all just drifting by."

So maybe it's not really for him.

Well, she guesses it doesn't matter right now. Truth be told, she's getting a bit irritated how out of order today is. She'd like to go back to making plans first instead of going along for the nightmare ride.

"So, what were you thinking?" says Hera, looking back at the kid.

"Broad question," he says.

"I'll put that down as 'nothing'," says Hera, but her tone is gentle. "Let me clarify. Now that no-one's in immediate danger of dying, we need to plan a little for when we get there. What escalation level of treatment are we talking about?"

She doesn't say _how expensive_ , but it's a capitalist galaxy. She doesn't have to.

Kanan thinks for a moment. "Hard to say, little bit of everything," he says. "Let's see. It got pretty damn cold in that fighter. And bumpy. Touch of decompression illness, too, hard to tell what else, she's all bruises and frostbite. The head injury is really bad news. She was slow to react to the ViStim at first, and that usually means -"

"Brain damage," says Hera. _Damn it_. "Hence the -?"

"Trance, yes. To stall tissue death," says Kanan. "Bacta should heal the damage, _if_ there are no more delays. Good thing it helps with all the rest, too, so, that's three or four birds with one admittedly pricey stone…"

"So, in other terms, admission, complete neuro assessment, artificial coma, about four days of bacta immersion therapy…" says Hera.

He whistles softly. "Somehow it sounds more expensive when you say it," he says. "Didn't think about it this way. That's what, thirty, thirty-five hundred?"

"And that's why I let you travel with me," says Hera drily. "Thirty-five sounds about right. So what _was_ your plan for the medcenter?"

"Your Luzette Ida ID has a fake credit line, doesn't it?"

"As fake as the name itself," says Hera. "Problem is, I used that name for the Droste job last week, and a bit of credit fraught might make them start investigating the whole op before our Drostian friends have had time to clear the premises."

"Aw, damn," says Kanan. "I was counting on Luzette. Do we know local splinter groups who might like us?"

"None with lots of credits _or_ their own medcenter," says Hera. She squints at their patient, as if to size her up. "Would you say she looks like she has rich parents?"

"I wouldn't bet on her having any sort of parents," says Kanan drily.

"Do _you_ have rich parents?" says Hera. "I've been meaning to ask."

"How should I know?" Kanan sighs, and looks up at her.

"Guess we'll have to pay upfront," says Hera. "It's the beauty of Corellia: NQA is just a question of how many credits." NQA is No Questions Asked. As Imperial as it is, Corellia is first and foremost a habitat of smugglers and pirates. Thank the Force for places like Corellia.

The thought does hurt her practical side. Which is a side she has thoroughly neglected today and which only now dares raising its head and make demands. Those credits have been ear-marked for much-needed maintenance on the _Ghost_.

"We'll be so skint after," says Kanan. "There's a lot of questions we need not asked."

"Then we'll pick up that Vizago job on our way home. The one you said was beneath our dignity?"

"I said it was beneath our dignity because it didn't pay enough," says Kanan. He shakes his head. " _Thank you_ , Hera."

"Well, that's who we are," says Hera, with a sigh. "Here to help." That job will barely pay for new repulsors.

She gets off the floor to leave, but then thinks better of it.

"Kanan," she says. "A question."

He looks up to her. "I know," he says. "I've been asking myself that. If this was a vision, then, _why_?"

"Exactly," she says. "Of all the people that need saving in the galaxy, why did the Force pick this one? Of all the _children_ , even? They all deserve it."

"Beats me," he says. "Well, you know how I feel about visions. It may take years until this all means something."

"Maybe the Force just wanted to knock and say hello," says Hera. "Remind us that saving people is worthwhile in itself."

Or maybe, she thinks, the Force just wanted to knock and say, _hey, Caleb, remember you're mine_.

That's more like it. _Hey, Caleb, remember you do what I want._ Maybe that's why Jedi Masters of old have painted the Force as such a jealous lover.

The Force could count itself damn lucky _she_ wasn't.

Kanan laughs. "Damn expensive way to make a trivial point."

* * *

They are getting a first glimpse into the _why_ after a mere four days. That is one damn impressive explosion.

" _Nice_ ," says Kanan over the comlink. "Though I feel a bit guilty about letting the kid blow up the tissue scanner." From the sounds of it, he's still running.

He has taken the long way over the roof, in an attempt to draw away as many Stormtroopers as possible from where Hera and the kid – well, Hera and _Sabine_ , though that may not be her name – well, mostly Sabine, anyway – have been busy rigging up the scanner. For someone who has been stuck in a bacta tank until an hour ago, Sabine has so far taken all this in stride.

It's not entirely reassuring.

"You haven't seen the way they run the diagnostics lab," says Sabine into their spare comlink. "Storing their spare superfluid tibanna gas in a supply cupboard? They had it coming." She sounds a bit bored by all this.

"Don't feel bad, Spectre One," says Hera. "With the money they overcharged us, they can easily buy a new tissue scanner."

"Yeah," says Kanan. "Though _maybe_ not a new East Wing." The floor underneath Hera's feet vibrates as something heavy collapses, some way off.

"True," says Hera. She's gives herself a moment to take in the view. "Quite a big hole, isn't it," she casually remarks.

"Don't worry, the walls will hold," says Sabine, "for a bit." She sets off. Somewhat sceptically, but thoroughly out of alternative options, Hera slips after her through the ruins of what was formerly the diagnostics lab, and then through the wall of the East Wing, neither of which come crashing down on her. They end up in the parking lot.

The wide-open, _empty_ parking lot.

Not a lot of cover, muses Hera, in full run, and motions Sabine to duck behind a stack of delivery crates. To be frank, it's the only cover in the entire lot. Even Stormtroopers will figure it out.

"We're sitting ducks here," hisses Sabine. "Unless you have – "

"We have," says Hera, thumping her comlink. "Spectre Four, we need a pickup. Hospital parking lot, just by the big hole in the wall. You can't miss it."

"On my way," says Zeb. "Two minutes."

"Spectre One," continues Hera, "Can you make it off the roof in time?"

Meanwhile, Stormtroopers are starting to trickle out the hospital's rear entrance as they realise their lockdown scheme has not accounted for the presence of a teenage pyromaniac.

It's going to be a long two minutes.

Kanan is evidently noticing the Stormtroopers as well. "No, I'll cover you from up here," he says. "You can come get me after. I can see our pickup on the horizon, by the way."

"Horizon is not good enough," mutters Sabine, whose greatest virtue may not be patience. She leaps up on the crate, cleanly picking off a couple of advancing Stormtroopers even with the pathetic toy blaster she has previously liberated from a hospital security guard.

"Great," hisses Hera from behind the crate. "Now they know where we are!"

"They already know where we are!" replies Sabine. She doesn't sound bored now. She sounds thoroughly focused, almost like she's enjoying herself.

They'll really have to find out what sort of life trajectory led the kid here.

"I like her, can we keep her?" says Kanan through the comlink, his voice punctuated by blaster shots on both ends of the conversation.

"Really," says Zeb, in the tone of someone long suffering (and isn't that usually Hera's job?) "Are we saving all the Empire's lost children now? Because we're soon going to run out of room."

"I don't see the problem," says Kanan. "Next one can share with you."

Finally, Hera can make out the _Ghost_ from her considerably lower viewpoint. It is serenading its own approach by firing twin blaster shots from the nose gun.

God, she hates shootouts. She'd really rather fly something right now.

"I guess I can clear my tools out of the nursery," says Hera. She jumps up to give off a few precise shots at the Stormtroopers herself, then ducks back behind the crates.

From on top of them, Sabine turns around towards her. "You guys realise I can hear you," she says.

" _You were meant to_ ," says Kanan, up on the roof. "Sabine, down!"

Whether that's her name or not, at least the girl reacts quickly. A mighty blaster shot cuts through the air where her head has been. Safe – well, safer – behind their stack of crates, and seemingly in awe, Sabine just watches for a moment. On top of the roof, Kanan, now a mere outline against steel-grey smoke, fires three shots in quick succession, taking out three Stormtroopers who had been running towards Hera and Sabine.

Hera watches Sabine watching Kanan, and decides it's not awe after all. Or, it is awe, but with an edge of calculation.

"Okay," says Sabine, confirming her suspicions, "from _that_ distance, with _that_ visibility, _that_ was actually impossible. Where did you _find_ the guy?"

If she weren't cultivating such a bored teenager drawl, Hera is convinced she might sound impressed.

"Spectre One, stop showing off, the kid's getting suspicious," Hera says into the comlink. It's meant as a joke to Sabine, a warning to Kanan.

Hera's mind races, and the timing is more than inconvenient. But there's something off about this girl, she thinks. Like she might actually be capable of figuring this all out. Well, she'll have to go on an information diet then.

A furtive glance over their crate tells her the remaining Stormtroopers have taken cover inside the building. Most likely, someone is bringing out the big guns. Even so, it might mean a minute without getting shot at.

"Any reason why you guys are so damn popular with the Empire?" asks Sabine, next to her.

It _sounds_ innocent. Well, Hera will be damned. "It was _your_ face they ran through the registry," she tells the kid.

Admittedly, she mainly says this to gauge Sabine's reaction. And it's not a lie if it's an Imperial SOP, she tells herself; and if it isn't an Imperial SOP, it probably should be. In any case, she and Kanan have classified the truth as confidential for now. As confidential, and extremely stupid.

During admission, their medic, a Clone Wars veteran, had studied the unconscious kid's brain waves and gone 'hm'. In fact, she'd gone 'hm' during three follow-up visit. On day two, she'd begun wondering where she'd seen those oddly shaped slow-wave oscillations before. Kanan ("I didn't _know_ Jedi trances have a damn brain wave signature!") had kept subtly confusing her. But as he'd explained to Hera on day three, during a hissed conversation in a cupboard full of office supplies, he could only interfere so much with the memory of the kid's attending physician before the cons started outweighing the pros.

So, to pass the time, they'd drafted up an escape plan. They'd hacked the main computer to liberate the bacta tank's wakeup sequence, and corrupted as many of the kid's files as they'd dared, considering she was still in treatment (so much for that Imperial SOP, she supposes). Zeb and Chopper had been kept on standby on the _Ghost_. Because clearly, something _stupid_ was about to happen.

On day four – this morning, in fact – the medic had gone and alerted the authorities about the teenage Jedi in bacta tank twelve. Which had definitely, definitely qualified as something stupid.

And now, of course, they are in the middle of a typical Imperial overreaction. Evacuating and locking down an entire hospital just for one kid they thought was a Jedi? Hera has caught glimpses of this madness before, but not at this scale. No wonder Kanan wants nothing to do with any of this. Hera just hopes the explosion has destroyed any leftover evidence they'd even been here.

Sabine, unfortunately, has likewise picked up on how disproportionate the whole situation is, and laughs. "Ha, no way this was for me. They won't order a complete lockdown just for one –"

"One what?" says Hera.

She's not the one with the visions, but it becomes perfectly clear to her at this moment. Sabine is significant. How can she not be? Even unconscious, this kid has somehow clawed her way into a Jedi vision. Now, just barely awake, she blows giant holes in hospitals and operates with a chilling grasp of Stormtrooper tactics for someone so young.

Oh _Force_. What if Sabine _is_ one? Sure, she's young, but Kanan had been the same age when he'd fought in that cursed war. What if that Jedi vision has circled in on the one thing even more stupidly improbable than finding a single drifting ship in a debris field? What if Kanan has, after all these years, _found another one_?

"One _what_?" repeats Hera.

"Runaway," says Sabine after a pause.

"Pickup's here," Zeb's voice comes in on the comlink. It has never been so welcome. "Spectre Two and… _kid_ , jump up in ten. Spectre One, get in position, thirty seconds for you."

Well, Hera guesses she'll just have to follow up on this all. But what with the situation they are currently in, that's for another day. "You'll keep your secrets, Sabine, we'll keep ours," she says.

Once aboard, Hera makes a run for the cockpit. Being aboard the _Ghost_ she feels immediately safe, even if they still have an orbit full of tetchy Imperials and unpredictable pirates to navigate. She doesn't even dare take time to sit down until they have picked up Kanan from the roof.

"Okay," she shouts, when everyone's aboard. "Three Spectres on the laser guns, one to talk to the navcomputer."

"Am I a Spectre or –"

"You are for the purpose of getting the hell outta here," shouts Hera, strapping herself into the pilot's seat. "Pick your favourite gun and _go_!"

Kanan, Zeb, and Sabine are running off in different directions, while Chopper plugs into the ship's mainframe to talk to the navcomputer.

"I'll need you all to hold them off for a bit," Hera shouts over the intercom. "The hyperdrive motivator is still a bit delicate. May take a while till we can jump."

"Seriously?" says Sabine from her position in the nose gun. "What kind of garbage can –"

"You haven't seen her flying yet," says Kanan from up in the dorsal turret, and it's utterly and probably deliberately unclear whether he means the _Ghost_ , or Hera.

The inevitable space battle confirms Hera's suspicions. Sabine is an _excellent_ shoot.

Not that Hera's complaining, and not (she thinks distractedly) that this is a brilliant time to update a mental to-do list, but where has someone Sabine's age learned all this? None of the options are entirely reassuring.

It takes a while until they're even marginally out of trouble. Speeding straight towards open space, keeping well out of the way of the Star Destroyer that is slowly turning in orbit, Hera uses a tiny break between TIE waves to shout: "So, what do you think, Sabine, can we offer you a ride to Lothal? We're taking the long route, mind."

"Lothal," says Sabine. "Isn't that Outer Rim? _Ugh_." She blows a lone TIE fighter out of their way.

"Hey missy," interjects Zeb, "you can take the offer, or wait for the next crew to save you, maybe they're from bloody Coruscant."

"Or we could drop you off on Mandalore," Kanan suggests innocently. He's slightly less subtle than Hera would have approached this. Could be worse, though, at least he doesn't point out that Mandalore is also Outer Rim.

The intercom is silent for a long while.

"How did you –" begins Sabine.

"The armour sort of gave it away," says Kanan.

Sabine snorts. "You guys lied about being a backwater import/export business, didn't you," she says.

"Well, we're pretty backwater and we do import/export, so…" says Hera, while Chopper beeps triumphantly. Finally!

"And that's a euphemism, isn't it," says Sabine, "Lothal then. I _guess_."

If Kanan were next to Hera right now, he'd probably throw her a meaningful glance. No Mandalore. No other pressing commitments. No-one to ring up to say she's okay, after four days in an artificial coma. It _is_ pretty telling, for someone who's learned to see what's not there.

Maybe that is what's supposed to happen. Is that what the Force has had in mind? To bring together this drifting wild child with no family, and, well, _them_? With their self-inflicted missions and their plans and their _structure_ , and the empty cabin they call a nursery? If so, all the coincidences are making Hera's head spin –

 _Hey, Caleb, remember you're mine_.

– Well, only one way to go from here. She pulls the hyperdrive lever.

* * *

 _The End._

(Story continues in _The Physics of Glitter._ )


End file.
